


Consecration

by Nottherealdean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Cutting, Gen, Knives, Past Character Death, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 09:06:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1852393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nottherealdean/pseuds/Nottherealdean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demon Dean Fest fill for the prompt: Demon!Dean spending time with the angel blade that killed him. Maybe it still has his blood on it, and maybe he uses it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consecration

The angel blade was cold, inert, lifeless. It felt like a wax dummy of a knife after handling the First Blade. That quivered with life, the bunched up power of a racehorse in the starting gate. It made sense though, the Blade came from flesh and blood and was christened with more of the same. It was bone that had once been part of a living thing, that had run across fields (or prairies, or savannas, or whatever it had been) and died and come back to a new kind of existence as a weapon. Angel blades were lumps of metal that were probably poofed into being out of nothingness, with no history or distinction. Maybe they didn't even exist at all in between use, and were dismissed into scattered atoms and a new blade was formed out of thin air every time an angel drew one. Dean thought that sounded about right, Heaven didn't care about its tools, even the ones that were people, so why bother to keep a blade when it could be destroyed and recreated, destroyed and recreated, as many times as needed? 

Dean twirled the lump of metal. He thought it was ugly, too, and not entirely out of resentment. Shiny but bland. The balance was okay and the edges were always sharp, but there was such a sterile, created-perfect-and-perfect-it-shall-stay feel to it that Dean didn't particularly like holding it. He tossed and caught it, then set the tip against the palm of his other hand. 

Metatron had pushed it into his chest. He could remember the feel of it grating against cartilage and bone, and then the satisfied twist Metatron had given before pulling it out and leaving a raw hole. Looking back on it, Dean knew he should have died faster from that kind of injury. The Mark must have changed his soul enough by then that it could stave off his body's death for longer than it should have been able to. 

He pressed the point in, through skin and into the muscle. Blood seeped out, with no urgency from a beating heart. It hurt, but no differently than an ordinary knife would. Dean slid the tip back out, and his skin grew together with the unsettling feeling of caterpillars crawling across it. He rubbed his fingers over the unbroken skin, smearing the blood. He wasn't going to run out of the stuff now. He wiped some of it off on the edge of the blade, and it made the angel blade look a little less cold. Less featureless. 

Dean pushed up his sleeve and dragged the angel blade along his forearm with a hiss of pain, opening a slice that bled sluggishly before zippering closed. He held the blade against the sealed-up cut, then turned it over to get the other side bloody too. It looked better red and wet, the blood giving it some kind of emotional heft, a glimmer of visceral life lying over the factory-line conformity and gloss. His blood made it look more real. 


End file.
